My love is vengeance, english
by tamy-blue
Summary: Do you know The Who's song "Behind Blue eyes"? How many times did you think this song talks about Spike? Well, this is a little AU fic about that. Pete Townshend did write that song thinking in Spike.
1. The Marquee

**DISCLAIMER**"characters are not mine, they belong to Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, the W. B, UPN and FOX, blablabla. I'm only having a little fun with them. This story belongs to me, and which I have no commercial purpose".**  
****Author's babling: **Please, english is my second or third language, so don't be too hard with me. I swear I'm trying my best.  
Please, feedbacks are my drug. I need them to know if I should keep working on this, or just shut the f*ck up. So let hear your outraged screams! Thank you!

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**July1964,No.90 Wardourstreet,Soho,London. _(Spike's POV)_****  
**  
The local makes honor to its fame. It´s been hard to find it, since they changed their usual direction only a few months ago. 'Not bad', you say to yourself looking around you, 'at least does not seem to have lost its original spirit'. You don't know if it is due to its relatively recent opening, but in the Marquee tonight there is no room for anyone else.  
Nursing your beer you make your way through the tumult with effort, until you get in the first row, in front of the stage.

The first to go on-stage, between voices and dense gray smoke of cigarettes, is a young guitarist. He's tall, ungainly, with a prominent nose, dark and long hair up to the shoulder that hung down over his face. Stupidly 'his' memory bites you like a snake, hissing irritated in your blood, but you numb the pain drinking again. Not this evening, you think angrily.

The band begins to play and have not yet spent two minutes when you scream enraptured. God, they are great, brutal, chaotic. The music envelops, transports you; beyond your senses, it collapses them. It makes you howl, and your voice is lost in the clamor of the premises; all the presents there are like wild wolves instinctively responding to the Night's call.

The vocalist faces with his overly cocky voice, spitting even some of the words, daring you. In the background, the drummer plays with your pulses but the best of all is without a doubt, the guitarist. He walks up and down the stage, jumping, prisoner of a delicious frenzy. Chords created by his fingers float before you, over you, inside you as dense drops of poison. In one of his laps, he stands in front of you; forehead sweat pearled, eyes dazed, running his right arm against the strings in a manic whirlwind.

You lose the notion of time and space. You're barely aware of what you do; you think you can hear yourself screaming. Sometimes you feel that you're dancing in unison of those around you, prisoners as you are, of the madness that emanates from the scenario, like blood from a wound.

Your throat roars hoarsely when the drums shatters, a drumstick pass at a full speed near your head. It is incredible. Those fellas are gods. Their music is a masterpiece, its staging; an ode to the disaster, the chaos, a catharsis destructive that culminates when the guitar clatters against the ground.

The dark musician dropped what little remains of his instrument once the music has stopped, and looks around as if he didn't know where he is. For a second your eyes meet, and although you know that is impossible, during that fleeting moment, you seem to see in the bottom of his dilated pupils the shadow of your lost soul.

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So, what do you think? I know it's a short chapter, but there are more waiting although I'm not posting the next chapter if I don't get al least one litte review.

Thanks!


	2. Woodstock

**DISCLAIMER"**_characters are not mine, they belong to Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, the W. B, UPN and FOX, blablabla. I'm only having a little fun with them. This story belongs to me, and which I have no commercial purpose"._**  
Author's babling:** Well, first I have to thank** Dan Sickles** for his help and support. Thank you so much! And thanks to **Rene Marie** and **Ninja Daughter of Hermes** for their Story Alert.

Again, if you wanna point out my mistakes, I would be glad to listen to you. Just please, not flames. _It's not my intention to offend_ anyone.

Then…I think I have to explain a few things about my own fanfiction. My spangles fics are about a hypothetical fifth season of ATS. Angel and Spike are still "living" in W&H's facilities, but they're reformed and a little less... evil. One day I'll write that story... I hope all this won't make you to run in the opposite direction.

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**Saturday ****August****16, ****1969; ****Woodstock,****USA. _(Pete Townshend's POV)_**

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You should be nervous, but the LSD softens the edges of reality and turns your guitar into a hatchet that kills your stage fright. This is your night. Nothing can go wrong. The stars have guided you up to this moment; this is where you will fulfill your destiny.

You go on to the stage and a human sea waves and howls in front of you. Lovingly, you touch your guitar, a "Special" Gibson, and you sigh because you really like this guitar. A part of yourself regrets that first time you broke your instrument by accident in that dirty joint.

Finally, everything gets silent; people wait expectantly, hungry of you. You adjust a little better your jacket of the Union Jack, your inseparable and faithful friend, and strum the taut strings of your guitar, letting flow the first notes. You hear the rest of your teammates follow you in this leap into the void, as if they were far away from you.

Your soul jumps, fights, struggles trying to escape from the prison of your body. The crowd rages at your feet as a sparkling ocean, and you shiver before its beauty. How many of you are there this night? Thousands, hundreds of thousands; a countless number of bodies, voices, hearts. And it is amazing because you feel that you all are one person. A single animal singing under the moon; and you feel running through your body all the energy, all the love, the whole faith, also all the hate, all the fear. As nocturnal flowers every man and woman open for you; they give you their spirits like an offering to a pagan god. And then you take every one of those feelings; you tattoo them under your skin, lock them into your heart.

Your soul boils as it was hot blood devouring everything in its path, while your body seems to have life of its own, drunk of immensity. The music makes you to go deaf; your soul's essence fingers flows from your fingers mixed with all those others that you just have been gifted.

It is…wonderful, much better than LSD and alcohol. You feed from the audience that trembles at your feet, and at the same time you feed them. You all breathe with the same lungs, rebel with an identical cry; you are the same heart beating in some dark corner of an infinite universe.  
It is too much. You are not even aware of how long you have been in that stage, beating your right arm on the battered strings of your guitar. However, it is time to stop, to cross the final frontier, to lose you whole. Your soul exploits inside you when the guitar slammers into the stage floor and the compact human mass howls, prey of your same frenzy.

You're exhausted and slowly you regain sanity. You remember where you are, who you are. You look around yourself and see that Moon has blown his drums once again, but you can't say at what point he did it.

Your gaze travels over your restless fans. Then your heart speeds up again when you notice that, in the middle of the crowd, a man remains still, his eyes fixed on you. He is young, blond, and he has beautiful blue eyes in which you fall, from which you don't even want to escape. He knows you are looking exclusively at him, and smiles, that exciting smirk that you've seen before, licking his pale lips. And for a few seconds, you feel this strange sensation piercing your soul, dark and painful…like the first time you saw him.

/

**Today, ****private ****library ****in ****W&H. LA****, ****USA.**

"My life grows tired, hungry to no purpose..." Spike mentally caresses the sad verses, painfully recognizing himself in them. The vampire morbidly recreates in the last two words, whispering them overwhelmed: "hungry to no purpose," cried the poet. The desolation draws a smile on his lips, which he hastens to delete drinking his whisky. During a brief moment, Spike wonders if that poor abandoned poet will not be himself.  
"I love what I do not have. You are so far." Conclude the verses, and it is too much for one night. He feels desperate and with sudden violence closes the book and throws it on the coffee table. The dull sound of the book against the noble wood echoes in the silence of the enormous room. It only serves to emphasize his loneliness.

It's late on the office, and he is sure there is no one else in the building, so he decides that a little music wouldn't bother anyone. The leather of the sofa creaks when he stands up and walks across the room until he is beside a large window. There is a great music system, which seems to be very expensive. Spike likes it because in spite of its modernity, it blends well in the warm and classic atmosphere of the library, thanks to its false antique appearance. In fact, it can even play old vinyl, which is a pleasure.

However, the blond vampire isn't in the mood to look for something decent in Angel's extensive and boring collection. So he just turns on the radio and fiddles with the tuner, until he finds a bearable station. He needs to get rid of this silence that pressed his chest; that absurd melancholy that the verses have resurrected, reminding him too late why he stopped to read poetry a long time ago.

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So, what do you think?

If someone got confused reading the first part, it's been told from Pete Townshend´s point of view.

Thanks again for reading! ^^


	3. Meetings

******DISCLAIMER**"characters are not mine, they belong to Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, the W. B, UPN and FOX, blablabla. I'm only having a little fun with them. This story belongs to me, and which I have no commercial purpose".  
Author's babling: Please, english is my second or third language, so don't be too hard with me. I swear I'm trying my best.  
Please, feedbacks are my drug. I need them to know if I should keep working on this, or just shut the f*ck up. So let hear your outraged screams! Thank you!

**Notes: Sorry, sorry! Forgive me! Oh my God, Real life is been a real pain in the ass. Also, I lost faith in my muse..and my bad english. But hey! I've decides that I can't be a coward. And I'm here again. Hope you are still interested. Non-beta, so all aaall mistakes are mine. ^^ **

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**November of 1969, Pete Townshed's study . San Francisco, EEUU.**

_(Pete Townshend's POV)_

The smoke of your cigarette draws grey spirals playing with the lights and shadows of the room, making you to half-close your eyes. Cheking the time, you marvel to see it's already six and a half in the morning. You have been working the whole night in your last song; your sore muscles complain, and your eyes are burning. But you're happy because you have done it. It has been a complicated delivery, frustrating in a few moments, because you went beyond words, you were not able to retain _his_ essence. Even now you have doubts as to whether you have achieved transmiting his beauty, but sadly you shake your head; you Could never create anything as beautiful as he was.

At least you can take comfort in the knowledge that no one may do so ever; he was too beautiful to be of this world. Many times since that night you've ever wondered if perhaps he was not.

Today his husky voice still resonates in your head. His laughter, dark and tired, as if it was very old. The sound of his boots on the ground of your precarious dressing room. Since that night, several months ago, you haven't stopped replaying the conversation you had after your concert at Woodstock.

You haven't found yet how he managed to pass security, but you didn't care then, and surely you don't give a damn now.

"I thought this time you wouldn't do it". It was the first thing that he said, without even introducing himself. He stared at you for a few seconds with his back still resting on the metal door closed behind him.

Confused, you answered with another question, asking him to explain what he was talking about, and he smiled a bit before answering. "The guitar. I thought you wouldn't break it, not this time". Even now, the memory of his words makes you shudder.

His words hit you hard, because for a few seconds, on that stage, you also believed that. Hearing your own doubts from the lips of a stranger made you feel uneasy, and full of unanswered questions.

With difficulty, you managed to ask him a question, the only one that you actually did not need to be answered. " I know you… don't I?"

The boy nodded amused and the white light from the naked fluorescent that illuminated the room made his hair sparkle. "Five years ago, that local of the Soho. You were brilliant, you almost took The Marquee down". You remember perfectly the tone of his voice, the note of disappointment stroking the word _almost_, as if he regretted that it didn't happen.

You asked him his name, letting yourself fall on a shaky sofa. He followed your movements in silence until he decided to join you. He still had time to look at you with those eyes extremely clear, outlined in black, before answering your question.

"I am Tommy", he said, deliberately discovering the lie with a mischievous smile.

"Why did you think I wouldn't break it this time? ", you wanted to know. Perhaps listening to his explanation you could find your own. "You looked… you look tired. Very tired of all this". His words hurt you deeply then, and you still hurt this morning thinking about them. _Tired of all this_, he said. And again you felt like you've gotten rid of all your skin and he was looking directly at your heart. As if you were made of glass and he could see through it, reading the truth of your soul.

"It is not ... that, exactly," You lied. "It's just that when I started this, I thought it would be different. I wanted to… I want to send a message. But sometimes I'm not sure if the message that people listen is the same that I'm trying to send them. I mean… Have you seen them? Out there, all this people. They are supposed to fight against something, to be looking for love but, a part of me feels that they are only looking for the pieces of my broken guitar".

The silence between you two was long, but not uncomfortable. Sad perhaps, barely interrupted by the screaming on the other side of the walls. The falsely called Tommy sighed then, and he spoke, more to himself than to you. You remember so well the color of his voice…

"Destruction. Love. Are the same Pete. Deep down, they are the same thing." "Not the love that I'm looking for. ", You stubbornly retorted.

"The love that you are looking for doesn't exist. That only lives in fairy tales, and Percy Sledge's songs. That love is not real. The authentic love shatters everything in its path. It changes you inside and out, it dynamites your soul, makes you go crazy. Destroys everything you are, it hits you until it leaves you breathless. Love is the brother of the hatred and pain. It is short-lived, you always seem to lose it too soon. Love is the poison of the heart, the vengeance of the blood."

He looked so lost while he was speaking that you felt the impulse to hug him and try to erase the pain of his eyes. But you just look at him, overwhelmed by the immensity of his words.

In that moment he really seemed to be very old, and yet his body was a perfect work of youth and vitality. His long and strong legs under a well worn blue jeans; a black vest that barely covered his torso, Remembering him now with that body, his sweet eyes, the severity of his soul… you wonder again, if maybe he wasn't an archangel fallen from Heavens? Perhaps… thrown out of it?

"Listening to you you someone would believe that you know what you're talking about",your attempt to joke made him smile again, but it was also as if he had built a wall around himself.

"Well, it's only an hour till dawn. I have to look for my girl, and find where to sleep off the hangover", you were about to ask him to stay with you but at the end you only offered him your hand, that he shaked friendly.

He turned around and opened the door, the sound of the outside broke into the room as an intruder. Before he left, you remember that he gave you a last ice-cold glance.

"Hold on Pete, I know that it's not easy. Being always the bad guy is harder than people think, but what you do is important". Being always the bad guy is harder than people think…that phrase was engraved on your heart. Tommy finally got out, leaving you lost in a blue fantasy of vindictive love.

Next morning you started a new song, experimenting with your new guitar, willing to change that. Ready to unmask the loneliness hidden behind a sharp smile, ready to scream at the world how much it hurts to play the role of villain. You wanted them to knew what they had never bothered to know; but above all of that, you wanted _him_ to knew that during that brief conversation, you've discovered the ocean of broken dreams that roared inside his cruel blue eyes.


	4. A Poet's Soul

**DISCLAIMER**"characters are not mine, they belong to Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, the W. B, UPN and FOX, blablabla. I'm only having a little fun with them. This story belongs to me, and which I have no commercial purpose". **Author's babling**: Well, this is the last chapter. I hope you like it, and please forgive my english! Thank you for reading!

**Today, ** **private ** **library ** **in ** **W&H. LA** **, ** **USA. (Angel's POV)**

You've been at least one hour in front of the elegant doors of the library; you don't dare to enter. You know that Spike is on the other side of the door, lying on the leather couch, surrounded by exquisitely ancients books. Listening to _your_ music, drinking _your_ whisky. At first, when you passed by and smelled him, you were going to Kick him out of there. But then you heard him muttering some sad poetry, and his voice sounded so dejected that you just stayed frozen with your hand on the knob of the door. Something bothered him then, because suddenly he changed his posture, throw in a bad way the book on the table and shortly after that he got up to turn the radio on. Too much silence, you guess. Your Childe never liked the solitude or the silence, because in the complete silence is when your ghosts can be heard, whispering words that you don't want to hear, dusting off memories that you would rather keep in oblivion. _God_, you thought for a moment, _don't let him touch my vinyls_. But he didn't, he just placed with the tune, until he found a station of old hits and refilled his glass of whisky.

You sigh sadly. Not even you know how he can be there, with the enormous wooden bookshelves, the familiar smell of ink and ancient paper, aftertaste of dust asleep in your throat. How can he hide in there, with _that_ memorie lurking in every corner. Maybe that is why Spike moves again in his sit. You can visualize him perfectly; a leg on one of the arms of the sofa, the other painfully resting on the delicate carved table, head slightly tilted, avid eyes on the book. You want to open the doors and take him out of there. But now it is not because he's in the library without your permission. Now you just want to protect, save him from himself, from his past, to save him from what you did to him so long ago, in a place too similar to this. And you don't understand it. This obsession to come back, to hold on to the bad memories, relive the pain. Spike loves to poke that wound, preventing it to heal. Perhaps, you thinks, it is only that his wound is still open, bleeding since then. Maybe that is what shines in the bottom of his eyes, the mystery of his body. But, how do you save him from that? If you cant even open the door of the library. If every time you have him before you, your blood boils and you barely can control the desire to hit him against the wall. The need to stake him on the chest; to kiss him until the next Apocalypse.

A guitar slips into the room, random deep, dark and dense notes swirling in the air. You think you recognize the song, but you're not sure. Who if seems to recognize it is Spike, because you can feel how your Childe stands and turn up the volume.

_"No one knows what it's like to be the bad man, to be the sad man behind blue eyes"_

The verse steals Spike's breath, as if it was too much effort, as if the smallest of movement hurt him badly. You don't understand it but you can smell his sudden desperation, the cry that it is breaking him inside, as a mirror against the force of your fist.

_"No one knows what it's like to be hated To be fated to telling only lies"_

It is too much, you cannot stand it any longer; the pain that emanates from Spike is unbearable, and no one deserves so much suffering. So without thinking about it too much you turn the door knob, and it opens heavily. Spike is facing the window, oblivious to everything, lost in the dark.

_" But my dreams they aren't as empty As my conscience seems to be…"_

The voice keeps singing bitterly, followed by the sad guitar chords, and a bass player that sometimes assumes too much prominence. You save the distance that separates you from Spike, and without saying a word, you embrace him, kissing his hair. He melts into your arms, sighing at the contact with your body. As if he had been sore and your skin would calm the pain. When Daltrey declares that:

_"I have hours, only lonely My love is vengeance that's never free"_

You have already kissed Spike's lips. You lick the silent tears that are running down his cheeks, stroking gently the body that trembles against yours, like a beautiful violin in your hands. Because only you know what he's really hiding, what has always been hidden behind these blue eyes: the poet with the most beautiful soul that will ever exist.


End file.
